The Tournament
by b7-kerravon
Summary: John Sheppard has previously unknown talents that Weir can use, but at what cost? Some childhood traumas are better left alone. CHAPTER 5 McKay vs. Sheppard, and what happens next. COMPLETE!
1. A Morning Workout

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

AN: Sheppard is a little angstier here than in my previous fic (Lessons in Leadership), but I _like_ angst....

**The Tournament**

By Kerr Avon

**1. A Morning Workout**

Sheppard loved his morning PT; despite all the exercise they got exploring other planets, there was something about running when you weren't trying to get _away _from pointy-fanged monsters that cleared the mind and soothed the soul. After about half a mile you hit a rhythm; breath came in time to the shoes slapping the pavement, and nothing mattered but reaching the next milestone. All the worries of the day, of your life, seemed to pigeon-hole themselves out of respect, allowing the runner to truly _live_, for just an hour. Rather like meditating, but sweatier. You actually got pulled out of yourself; the colors were brighter, the sounds clearer, and your surroundings just a little more in focus than they were for the rest of the day. The best time, of course, was just before sunrise, so you could watch the dawn with all its hopeful promise, yet see your feet well enough not to trip.

McMurdo had facilities set up for exercise, but no real track. Of course, neither did Atlantis, but the place was so large that, once enough area had been properly explored, anyone who so desired could easily find a couple of miles of unused corridor to go jogging to their heart's content. A number of the military personnel cobbled together a halfway respectable gym as well, and opened it up to Base use. A few of the scientists were welcome regulars, but for the most part the soldiers utilized the facilities.

Lately Sheppard had managed to get in a run almost every day. With the Gate temporarily shut down while they worked on shield code verification signals, he had a little extra time on his hands. Of course, he still had to help the scientists figure out what different Ancient devices did, but they never started until after the A.M. staff meeting.

This morning John had managed a good workout, followed by a nice hot shower, and felt ready to attack his day. _'Still, a nice strong cup of coffee would make it perfect.'_ He detoured past the Mess Hall on his way to an early meeting with Weir, planning to grab a quick cup. He wondered why room was unusually crowded until he recalled that it was Thursday, and therefore breakfast was a hot meal rather than MREs. Even so, all he really wanted was the Java.

He had just finished stirring in the creamer and taken a sip when Private Michaels stumbled and jostled the Major's elbow, causing some of the hot liquid to splash onto his sleeve. A few drops even made it onto the shirt of the man to the pilot's right.

Michaels was aghast. "I'm so sorry, sirs!" he said to them both. "Here, let me help clean it up." Grabbing some nearby paper towels, the young serviceman began blotting the damp areas on their clothes.

Sheppard smiled reminiscently; the same thing had happened to him when he had just been in the service a few months. At the time, he'd been sure they were going to Court Marshall him. "At ease, Private. No harm done." He smiled reassuringly. "Busy place this morning, isn't it?"

The young man was clearly relieved that he wasn't about to be yard-armed. "Yes, sir, it is. Thank you, Major."

Unfortunately, the civilian caught in the spill wasn't nearly as forgiving, and Sheppard recognized the scientist with an inner groan: Kavanagh. The man gaped open-mouthed at Sheppard's attitude, then decided to voice his own opinion. "Well, being drenched with scalding coffee may be all in a day's work to you military types, but some of the rest of us have _standards._" He stared down his nose at the now-cringing youngster. "Maybe if you idiots would occasionally use the muscle between your ears, you wouldn't be so clumsy."

Sheppard was riled, now. No one treated one of _his_ men like that. Assuming a polite 'I might kill you, but later' smile, he addressed the scientist. "Kavanagh, might I have a word? _Privately?!?_" He gestured for the self-important man to precede him into the hallway. As he turned to follow, he shot the Private an encouraging smile, then dropped the steel shutters behind his eyes.

Outside the Mess, he grasped the taller man's elbow and steered him, vehemently protesting, into a nearby unoccupied room. "All right, spill it."

Kavanagh was confused, and a little frightened, both of which he tried to hide. "What are you talking about, Major?"

"Listen, this is a small base; it's like living in a fishbowl. Despite the fact that they are in another _galaxy,_ fighting an enemy that was probably the source of the original vampire stories, a lot of these soldiers are _kids_, 18 or 20 years old! You treat them like dirt over something so minor as getting a few drops of coffee on your shirt, and there will be repercussions."

Kavanagh drew himself up haughtily in disbelief. "Are you threatening me?" he demanded.

Sheppard sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. 'No, no, no. I'm pointing out that there are consequences to everything we do in a microcosm like this. Think back to when you were 19, like Private Michaels. Now imagine that someone you respected treated you like you just treated him; someone you had to see every day. How would you react?"

The fair-haired man sneered, "I'd get my act together and make sure I was more careful next time."

Sheppard fixed him with an unblinking stare. "I doubt that very much." He continued in low tones. "Let me tell you how _he_ is likely to react; either with lowered self-esteem, or with resentment. Now both these reactions become a problem for _you_."

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Kavanagh was now openly confused, but his tone was that of someone humoring a madman.

"If he goes out with you on a mission and sees himself as a failure, he is less likely to successfully protect you from the Wraith. If he goes out full of resentment, he might not _try_ to protect you." He shrugged. "If you're very, very lucky, he'll have the maturity to realize that you're just an asshole, and will have already forgotten about the whole thing." With that, he turned and left the room.

----------------------------------------------

He rapped on the door to Doctor Weir's office. "Come in," echoed the distracted reply.

"You wanted to see me, ma'am?" Sheppard was on his best behavior.

Weir stood and came around her paper-littered desk. "Yes, John. Thank you for coming. I wanted to talk to you before the main staff meeting." She gestured for him to sit, then leaned on the edge of her desk.

He spread his arms receptively. "I'm all ears."

"We have a problem."

He snorted. "Only one?"

She smiled in agreement. "Well, only one I wish to discuss right now." She became serious again. "Morale."

His mind flitted back to his recent interaction, and he nodded. "Yes, that _is_ a problem."

Weir straightened and began to pace. "Now, as far as I can tell, the rift that seems to be developing is not between countries or political factions or even the sexes; it is between the military and the scientists."

"_Some_ of the scientists," he corrected.

She nodded. "Granted. While the majority of the soldiers seem to accept the researchers on their own terms, there are a growing number of self-proclaimed 'geniuses' who are becoming increasingly disdainful and resentful of the military presence here in Atlantis. They think that the 'real work' is the research that they are doing, not realizing that those young soldiers are ready and willing to lay down their _lives_ to protect that research, and are the only reason that it is safe to continue."

"Well, can't we just tell them that? Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Unfortunately, Kavanagh and his crowd are unlikely to listen. Somehow they've decided that anyone outside of their small research community is an idiot, and not worth listening to." She sighed. "That apparently includes me."

"Wait a second. You speak 5 languages and have brokered more than twenty treaties between factions that had 'irreconcilable differences'. How can anyone in this Universe consider _you_ an 'not worth listening to'?" Sheppard raised an eyebrow in confusion.

Weir sat in an adjacent chair and leaned forward. "You tell me, but it's a problem. And there's the crux of the issue; I almost had a one-man mutiny on my hands when you and McKay were jammed in the Stargate. Kavanagh's pride was more important to him than finding a solution. He was certain that his proposed course of action was right, and if McKay hadn't been in need of rescue on that shuttle as well, he might have gotten the other scientists to side with him. Now, I'm not certain that McKay's presence would make a difference."

He looked at her in disbelief. "You aren't suggesting that we put them under arrest? We're a long way from home, with possibly no way back..."

She shook her head emphatically as she interrupted him. "No, they haven't done anything...yet. I want to puncture their elitist balloon before it comes to that. We need everyone to pull _together_ if we're going to survive. Each person doing what they do best, and respecting the jobs done by others."

Sheppard blinked several times in confusion. "OK, I'm in. But how do we do it?"

Weir leaned back. "There are only three or four core scientists who seem to believe that they ought to be calling the shots around here. This opinion is based solely on their belief that they are universally smarter than the people in charge. We need to show them that their stereotypes might be a little outdated, not to mention two-dimensional."

The confused expression deepened. "How?..."

"We have a tournament."

"What, like a race or marksmanship or something? I don't see how that will help."

"No, a _mental_ competition."

Sheppard caught on. "Oh, logic problems, puzzles...MENSA stuff?"

She nodded, a half-smile on her face. "That's the idea, but easier. It turns out that this small group of dissidents initially got to know each other through a game they all enjoy, and consider the absolute pinnacle of intelligent achievement..." Weir cocked her eyebrow and leaned forward.

An expression of horror flitted across the Major's face, to be replaced by one as close to panic as she had ever seen in the man. Which, considering everything he had dealt with in the past three months, was saying something. "Oh, no. There is NO WAY..." He shrank away from her as far as the seat would allow.

'_What in the world? Damn, he's really freaked. This may not work after all.'_ Weir let her disappointment show as she reconsidered her options. Finally she said, "All right, John, forget I said anything. I'll come up with something else." She stood businesslike and started back to her paperwork. "I'll see you at the staff meeting in a few minutes."

She sat behind her desk and began to scan her requisitions. After a moment she glanced up and noted that Sheppard had not moved, and in fact had slumped down in his chair. He seemed a million miles away. Curious, she stood and went to touch his shoulder.

"John? Look, I'm sorry. I just saw the entry in your personnel file and thought that..."

Unseeing eyes stared forward at the hands he had clasped between his knees. "I haven't played since I was fourteen."

She snorted. "I'm not asking that you _win_, just show one or two of them that being an Air Force officer doesn't prevent you from having brains."

"It takes brains to speak five languages," he pointed out redundantly.

"Not in their world. The only seemingly universal comparative yardstick for intelligence that they will accept...." She shrugged and moved to stand in front of him. "is chess."

She smiled self-deprecatingly. "When I discovered that my little clique of troublemakers had a chess club and respected others who were good at the game, I realized that this was a way to get them to recognize _your_ authority, if not mine, and maybe rethink their prejudices concerning the soldiers." She paused meaningfully, "Of course, you would have to do reasonably well..."

Shadowed eyes slowly raised to meet hers. "If I play, I'll win."


	2. The Nightmares Begin

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

The Tournament 

By Kerr Avon

**2. The Nightmares Begin**

"So, that's pretty much the agenda for today." Weir gazed around the conference table at the faces before her. For the most part she had their undivided attention, with two notable exceptions. Dr. Kavanagh was slumped lazily in his chair, openly doodling on the pad in front of him, and John Sheppard was sitting uncharacteristically silent and stiff-backed in his, staring _through_ his empty notepad. She briefly considered dismissing everyone at that point to give the Major a chance to reconsider, but realized that the entire situation would only get worse.

She cleared her throat and continued. "One last point of business. As we are pretty much on our own here, I think it's time we had a team-building exercise." Several people straightened up at this, wondering where it was going, while others groaned. "I propose a tournament. It will be mandatory for every member of the Atlantis Base to participate, no matter the language or rank of the individual."

McKay looked worried, "What, are we talking about some sort of track and field event? That would give the military members an unfair advantage."

Weir shook her head once, smugly. "Not a physical contest; a mental one. I propose we have a chess tournament."

Kavanagh, who had been glowering at her, suddenly appeared interested. _'Ah-ha....Gotcha!'_ she thought as she went on to explain the rules. "The tournament will be triple-elimination, so if there are one or two out there who are far superior at the game than the rest of us, no one will feel cheated by encountering them early in the competition. The initial pairings will be set up by a random-number generator; could I ask you to do that, Rodney?"

"Certainly," he nodded with interest.

"Now, I know that some of you have a chess club, while others have never played. I'd like those of you who know how to play to instruct some of the neophytes in the basic rules, and maybe play a game or two for practice. I've had engineering make up a number of sets for this, and you can sign them out at will. Of course, many of you play on your computers, but the actual competition will be with the boards in the main room so that anyone can watch. We'll give it a week before the first round, so that those who want it will have time to practice." Weir looked about the table. "Any questions? Well, then, dismissed. Rodney, I'd like that list by Wednesday so we can post it on the wall in the Common Area." She began gathering her notes as the others filed out. "Oh, John?"

Sheppard turned back, stiffly formal. "Yes, Doctor Weir?" Carson Beckett shot him a surprised glance as he exited.

"Would you mind checking with the soldiers and instructing those who don't know how to play in the basic rules? I'm certain Teyla could use some help."

"Why give the poor girl a handicap?" she heard muttered by one of the departing men, but let it slide. _'We'll see who's handicapped.' _Sheppard just nodded once and walked out.

----------------------------------------------------------

_The board was missing more than half its pieces at this point. The boy's hand tentatively reached forward, then withdrew. He repeated the gesture several times as John watched his face expectantly. Finally, pursing his lips in defeat, the sandy-haired youngster reached for his king, intentionally tipping it over. A roar erupted from the crowd._

Major Sheppard shot up in bed, drenched in sweat. _'OK, that was nasty.'_ Raising a shaking hand to his forehead, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, grimacing at its dampness. _'I'm sweaty anyway; might as well go for a jog. God knows I won't be sleeping any more tonight.'_ With that thought in mind, he got up and pulled on his sweats.

------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Carson Beckett was not a happy man. Glancing down at his clipboard, he realized that he had lost track of where he stood in the inventory yet _again_. The Hoffans had been quite generous in the supplies they had provided as part of their 'payment' for his help. He closed his eyes momentarily. _'Help. Ha! What a laugh.'_

Still, cut off from Earth, possibly forever, made him appreciate the little things that would normally come on a resupply flight when they were in the Antarctic. Things like bandages, needles, IV fluids....He had to make certain he knew what was available to him, and when he would have to improvise something else. So why did he keep thinking about the conversation at lunch?

The Mess Hall had been crowded when he arrived, but he spotted a chair next to McKay and some of the other scientists and headed over. "Is this seat taken?"

McKay, taking a sip of coffee, gestured to the spot. "No, Carson, go right ahead."

The physician sat down quickly, opened his box, and groaned. "What'd you get?" McKay asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Chicken tetrachloride." Beckett replied in disgust.

"Don't you mean 'tetrazini'?"

Carson just sighed again. "Have it your way..." McKay chuckled and returned to his own lunch.

As he picked at his food, Beckett became aware of the conversation among the group, and for once it wasn't about the physics behind the newest Ancient technology. No, today it was about chess.

"Be serious. I've beaten you more times than I can recall. In fact, I've beaten everyone at this table at one time or another!" Kavanagh was stressing his point.

"Yes, but not always." Zelenka managed around a mouthful of food. "And there might be somebody else on base that is better than you."

"Like who?" The young man snorted derisively. "I'm a founding member of the chess club; I'd know if there was anyone here significantly better than me."

McKay swallowed another slug of coffee, then interjected, "Yes, but just because they don't play on base doesn't mean they aren't _good_. Weir has made this mandatory for everyone to participate." He gestured to the doctor. "Carson, here, for example. I'm sure he knows the game, and I'd wager he's not half bad...but have you ever seen him _play_?"

Simpson nodded. "He has a point, you know."

Kavanagh fixed the physician with a stare. "So, _are_ you any good?"

Carson gulped, then opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by Simpson. "Of course he is; he's smart enough to figure out that gene, isn't he?" Beckett snapped his jaw shut. No reason to disillusion them yet; he _hated_ chess. Maybe he could manufacture some medical emergencies to get him out of participating in this ridiculous tourney.

Zelenka's eyes suddenly widened, then he started smiling at a private joke. "I will bet, _literally_, that no one at this table will win this contest."

The group erupted with various sounds of derision and disbelief. Kavanagh finally clarified the proposed wager. "Let me get this straight, Zelenka. You would bet money that the winner of the triple-elimination chess tournament will _not_ be Beckett, McKay, Simpson, myself, or yourself?"

The Czech spread his hands inoffensively. "I'm sure we will all do well, but yes, I will wager that there is at least one other person at this facility who is better."

"Oh, I have to get in on this!" Rodney was pulling out his wallet. "How much?"

Spirited haggling ensued, much of which Beckett ignored. When asked, however, he declined to place a wager. "Chess playing ability is not a direct reflection of one's intelligence," he protested, his brogue thickening.

"Exactly my point!" exclaimed Zelenka.

"Oh, you don't really believe that, do you?" scoffed Simpson.

'_Oh dear.'_ He kept quiet, concentrating on his plate. He looked up again once the conversation had moved on to safer subjects. To his surprise, Zelenka looked like a cat that ate a canary.

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_The room was crowded with young people in their nicest clothes, and their families. A huge four-tiered cake stood against the far wall, with pieces being cut and served by two men in chef hats. Nonalcoholic sparkling cider was being passed around in champagne glasses made of real crystal; he knew because Dad had once showed him how crystal rang, while glass 'clunked'. Tinging his empty goblet with his thumbnail, he peered anxiously around the ballroom trying to catch a glimpse of his parents. All the while people pounded him on his back as he shook their hands distractedly. The anxiety that had been building climaxed as he spotted the Detective Bebense at the entrance._

Sheppard shot out of bed, trembling. OK, this was ridiculous. Here he was, a thirty-eight year old man, being plagued by childhood dreams. _'It's just a game'_ he kept repeating to himself, trying to still his racing heart. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it was almost time for him to get up, anyway. He was sure looking forward to his run this morning.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Private Michaels, a word?" Sheppard nodded toward a quiet corner of the hangar where the young man was currently doing weapon maintenance.

"Yes, sir?" He carefully set the M-16 components on the tarp where he would be certain to find them again, then came over.

"I'll get straight to the point, since I can see you're busy. I assume you've heard about the chess tournament?"

Michaels grinned. "The whole base has, sir."

"And how are you at the game?"

The young man winced slightly. "I know the basics, but was never particularly good at it. My little sister would routinely beat me."

"How would you like to get better?"

"Well, I know they're letting us borrow practice boards..."

"Tomorrow at ten, on the far side of the gym, I'll be holding classes for beginners and those who just want to improve. I won't promise that you'll win, but I will promise that you won't embarrass yourself in the competition."

Michaels' eyes widened. "Are you good at chess, sir?"

"Used to be. I could use a little practice myself before next week." He paused uncomfortably, then smiled at the young man. "Get back to work; be there tomorrow." As he turned to leave, Sheppard swore to himself that he wouldn't give Kavanagh a reason to belittle the soldier again.

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_The Detectives were speaking quietly to a man in scrubs and a white coat, who kept shaking his head and gesturing at John, who had curled up into a small ball on the hard plastic seat, awaiting a verdict. The man in the hospital garb finally threw up his hands in surrender, and the words, 'I'm telling you, this is a bad idea' floated over to him. He tried to make himself even smaller as the three men approached._

_Bebense grasped his shoulder gently. "Son, I know you're in a country foreign to you, but our laws are strict. We need a family member to identify the bodies, and your grandmother won't be here until tomorrow night at the earliest. If you'll come with me..."_

Hurling the covers off the bed, Sheppard muttered, "I am _not_ going there." He looked up at whatever gods might be watching, and shook a fist. "You hear me? I am _so_ not going there again!" A brisk walk would be just the thing tonight, rather than a run. Something, _anything,_ to get these thoughts out of his head. He cursed himself for agreeing to go along with Weir's little 'if we show them up they have to respect us' plan. He'd thought that, after all this time, he could handle it. He'd been wrong.


	3. Practice Makes Perfect

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

The Tournament 

By Kerr Avon

**3. Practice Makes Perfect**

Sheppard headed down the corridor after dinner with a slight drag to his step; still, he believed that he might actually survive this whole thing. It had been three days and the roof hadn't fallen on his head, nor had he been struck by lightening. The nightmares, although increasingly frequent, could usually be handled with a brisk run, after which he was too tired to dream and often managed another hour or two in the sack. His 'classes' had actually been well-attended, and not just by active duty troops. After explaining the pieces and demonstrating how they moved, he got the group paired off for practice games. Teyla had done surprisingly well, once she got the hang of the knight's movement, and actually managed to win her third game. He had wandered between the players, giving tips on strategy and bits of encouragement when needed. Everyone who participated was definitely improving. Glancing at his watch, he confirmed that he had time for a quick two miles before he turned in for the night. Engrossed in planning out his route, he almost didn't hear the familiar Scottish brogue calling his name.

"Major Sheppard! Do you have a moment?" Beckett panted as he caught up with the pilot.

"Sure, doc. What can I do for you?" The pair continued walking together towards the living quarters area.

"Well, I understand from some of my techs that you're conducting some chess classes..."

John nodded; he thought he knew where this was headed. "Would you like to swing by and give some pointers of your own? I'm certain people would appreciate the added input."

Dr. Beckett became flustered and a faint embarrassed blush tinted his cheeks. "Ach, my heavens, _no_! Actually, I was wondering if I could get a little instruction myself."

Sheppard shrugged. "The classes are open to everyone; just drop on by."

"Well...you see...that is..."

Sheppard halted and turned to look Carson straight in the face, and waited. The mortified physician looked at the ground, stammered a few more seconds, then met the Major's gaze. "I'm embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?" Sheppard couldn't believe his ears. "Come on; I have people in that class who've never even heard of the game before!"

Carson looked frantically around, then relaxed slightly when he realized that they were alone. "Shhh...keep it down, will you? It's just that, well, people _expect_ me to be good at games like this, and I never have been." He was almost begging at this point. "If there was anything you could do to, well, keep me from making a complete fool of myself, I'd be forever in your debt. I just don't want my patients to think that their doctor is an idiot."

John stared incredulously. "The two things don't have anything to do with each other. Winning at chess only proves how well you play chess, nothing more."

Beckett hunched his shoulders. "I know that, and you know that, but there are people on this base that think otherwise." He stared at his shoes. "Can you help me?"

'_I hope Weir's proud of herself.'_ He knew he shouldn't be angry, but this was getting out of hand. "Sure, Carson, no problem. My room's just up here; I have a practice set on my desk." _'Besides, I probably ought to play at least ONE game before the contest starts...'_

Carson followed the Major into the rather utilitarian room. At this point, only Teyla had anything resembling personalization in her quarters, but then again, she was the only one without a weight restriction on travelling here. John's room looked pretty much like everyone else's; a bed, desk, two chairs, closet, and bathroom. Interestingly enough, it was impeccably neat – bed made, no stray clothing lying about, papers in neatly organized stacks. Sheppard seated himself at his desk, opening the box that rested on one corner, and produced the chessboard. He gestured to the other chair, "Pull up a seat, Doc. Do you prefer white or black?"

"I don't know. Is one better than the other?"

"White makes the first move. Some people think that gives them the advantage of attack, while others think that it has the disadvantage of giving away their strategy too soon."

Carson looked bewildered. "After one move?"

Sheppard spread his hands. "Hey, that's their theory. Personally, I don't think it matters at all."

Beckett considered for a moment. "I'll go first."

Sheppard smiled reassuringly. "White it is."

As John began setting up the board, Carson noticed that his hand was trembling slightly. Surreptitiously glancing at the Major's face, he observed a slight sheen of sweat, as well as an unnatural pallor. His medical instincts kicked into high gear when Sheppard almost dropped one of the rooks. Bluntly, he asked, "Major, are you all right? We could do this another time..."

The Air Force officer managed a wan quirk of his lip. "You're not getting out of this that easily," he teased. Clearly, whatever was going on was not up for discussion. Carson decided to keep an eye on their pilot in the future, but drop the subject for the time being. The board was ready; the game began.

Two hours later, Carson was a little shaky himself. The normally gregarious Major had been completely focussed on the game, remaining silent unless pointing out the risks and benefits of the moves they each made, and the long-term advantages as well. There was absolutely no extraneous small talk involved, but Carson noted that the mild hesitancy disappeared as the evening wore on, and some of the color crept back into the man's face. By the time Beckett tipped over his king, he felt like a wrung-out sponge that had been intensely immersed in strategies and possibilities of battle, then squeezed dry.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, staring at the pieces, then wiped his forehead. "Whew. That...was like...no game I've ever played. What an experience!" He grinned up from the board at Major Sheppard, and became instantly alarmed.

The man had blanched completely, throwing his dark hair into stark relief against the paleness of his face. His eyes were hollow and fixed on the fallen king, and his breath came in shallow pants. He looked close to passing out; Doctor Beckett had seen it enough to recognize the symptoms instantly.

"Major!" he cried, knocking over his own seat as he jumped up and headed for the opposite side of the desk.

As Carson's hand closed on his shoulder, Sheppard swayed slightly, then blinked. His gaze shifted from the game he had just won, to the hand on his shoulder, up to the physician's concerned face. The eyes were uncomprehending as Beckett quietly instructed, "Come on, John, you need to lie down for a few minutes."

That seemed to bring him around. "No, no, I'm all right." To prove his point, he stood up and reached for the box to put away the chess set. Unfortunately, he moved too quickly and almost toppled over in the process. He leaned forward on both arms as he took several deep breaths. Once he had recovered his equilibrium somewhat, he shot Beckett a crooked grin. "I don't suppose there's any way you didn't just notice that."

Beckett crossed his arms over his chest, and in his best no-nonsense voice replied, "No, Major. I saw it. One of the healthiest men I know just about fainted after winning a game of _chess_. Now, are you going to tell me what's going on, or are we taking a stroll to the medical unit?"

Sheppard picked up his king and stared at it as if it held the answers to all the questions in the universe. Beckett decided that he could outwait the most stubborn flyboy. Ultimately, Sheppard muttered, "It's a long story."

Beckett spread his arms as he uprighted his chair and sat back down. "I have all night."

Sheppard met his eyes, then sighed and resumed his seat on the other side of the desk. He then meticulously began putting away the board and pieces as he spoke. Carson carefully schooled his own face to be both neutral and open.

"When I was a child, I was quite a bit different than I am now. The 'John Sheppard' known to the Stargate project, and to the Air Force as far as that goes, is a carefully-cultivated persona: an all-around good guy who likes to meet people, make friends, and fly fast and hard. He's tough, honest, decisive, and loyal to his command; the men are the most important part of any mission. He's sarcastic, hates hypocrisy, and pretty much speaks his mind. Most importantly, while not stupid, the military's 'John Sheppard' is just enough smarter-than-average to assure that he qualifies for the short list for the fastest new chopper out there, but nothing more. If you're too clever you get promoted to a desk job, or sent to the research labs for the rest of your career." He fixed Beckett with a glare. "I'm trusting you here; I don't know how it is in Scotland, but that's the way the USAF works."

Carson nodded in understanding. "Nothing you say will leave this room, Major."

John held his gaze for a moment, then dropped it to study his clasped hands on the desk. "All right. Well, the _real_ John Sheppard actually understands quite a bit more than the researchers around here think. For instance, when McKay launches into a diatribe about his latest findings, or space-time theory, or wormhole physics, I usually grasp it the first time through." He shot Beckett an embarrassed glance, then look back down. "When I was a kid, I was what you might call an _uber_-geek. Not the run-of-the-mill, pocket-protector, calculator-on-belt nerd, but what most adults I knew kept referring to as a 'prodigy'." He looked up again and shrugged. "I was good at math."

Beckett said nothing. Sheppard squirmed a little, then rolled a pencil across the desk. "I was _very_ good at math."

When Carson just raised an eyebrow, John rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "At age five I was solving differential equations; by eight, I had written a thirty-seven page proof of a theorem that had previously eluded professional mathematicians." He smiled with some fondness at the memory, then sobered and returned to his story.

"Well, as you probably know, there seems to be a genetic link between certain abilities when they are exceptional; people that good at math also excel in art and...chess."

The light dawned in Carson's eyes. "So you are a good chess player?" he hazarded.

John didn't appear particularly proud of the ability. Matter-of-fact, he stated, "When I was fourteen, I won the World Junior Chess Championship."

Beckett's jaw dropped. "Did...did you say 'World'...?"

"Yeah. My parents had always been proud of my chess ability." The Major himself appeared anything but arrogant. "What I didn't know at the time was that organized crime will gamble on _anything_, even a kid's chess competition. In the final round, they wanted my opponent to win; they kidnapped my parents and threatened to kill them if I didn't lose."

Beckett was confused. "But...I thought you said that you _won_ the Championship?"

Sheppard fixed him with steel-clad eyes. "I did. The police had assured me that they would find my parents and protect them, and I shouldn't worry." His voice dropped to a whisper, "They told me to 'do my best' because that's what my parents would want. I trusted them."

Carson blinked, at a complete loss for anything to say. He finally managed to choke out, "Did they...?"  
John's face stayed frighteningly expressionless. "Their bodies were found in the alley next to our hotel less than an hour after I won. I identified them in the morgue later."

This sounded like a bad movie. "So you were orphaned at fourteen? Because of a chess game?" Beckett asked incredulously._ 'No wonder he damn near fainted just now!'_

"I had relatives. I made the rounds until I graduated high school. As soon as I turned eighteen, I joined the Air Force. They put me through college; afterwards I flew anything I could get my hands on." He looked up again with his dead eyes. "This was the first game I've played since that day."

Carson was aghast. "Oh, God, John, I'm sorry. I had no idea...I mean, with you organizing those classes...I just assumed...."

Sheppard let a ghost of a smile play about his lips. "It's all right. In fact, it's better this way. I promised Weir that I'd participate, but until tonight I couldn't make myself go looking for an opponent." His smile became more genuine. "You just forced the issue."

He wiped the sweat from his face and sat up straighter. "Besides, considering my physiologic reaction to just a simple, private, instructional match, I suspect I _would_ have fainted if it had been a competition in front of spectators." His brow creased in concern as a thought crossed his mind. "You know, I still might."

"We could have training games nightly between now and then, and the first several rounds aren't likely to attract many onlookers." Dr. Beckett suggested. "I could certainly do with the practice, and I really did enjoy the game."

Sheppard thoughtfully picked up the black knight. "Yeah, it was fun, wasn't it?" He met the doctor's eyes once again. "You've got yourself a date. Tomorrow night at seven?"

Beckett pushed back his chair. Seriously, he inquired, "Are you going to be all right?"

Sheppard stared into his concerned eyes, then slowly nodded. "Yeah. Yes, I am."

The next game was again in the privacy of his quarters; the third was more public, down in the medical unit, but attracted only passing glances. The next day, Wednesday, the pairings were posted. Each combo had 24 hours to agree upon, arrange, and conduct their game. The winner would write his name on the line in the next tier; the loser would write his on the "One-down" tourney chart. If he lost a second time, he hit the "Two-down" tree. When there was a third loss, he got to be a spectator. Excitement was palpable as people crowded around the chart, examining their first match-ups.

Sheppard leaned against the room's far wall, a smirk plastered on his face, waiting for the crowd to thin out so he could check out the listings without appearing eager. Beckett spied him upon entering the room, and made his way over. "Are you going to be OK with this?" he inquired quietly.

Sheppard's nonchalant smile never wavered as he managed to force through gritted teeth, "My heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and my knees are weak. I'm not sure."

"Well, if you feel like you're going to faint, I can help you get to a table to sit down." Beckett made certain that no one could hear their low-key conversation.

"No, I'll be all right." He flashed a quick smile, then turned serious. "Thanks, Carson."

"You're welcome." He glanced at the board. "How about I try to make it over there and see who we're up against?"

John smiled and nodded. Beckett was up in a flash to examine Rodney's chart, and returned after jotting down the names.

"I've got Sgt. Metre as my first opponent. You're up against Lt. Riley."

John nodded and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to.


	4. It Comes Down to This

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

AN: I was asked why I chose 38 for John's current age; I agree that it seems a little old for a combat pilot, but all the "character biography" sites I've visited list him as between 35 and 40, so I chose something in the middle. How old is Joe Flanigan himself, anyway? Anybody know?

**The Tournament**

By Kerr Avon

**4. It Comes Down To This**

As the days went by, the pool of "Undefeated" players became smaller as more dropped into the tier below. By day four, the "Spectator" class had been firmly established. Teyla had actually managed to win one or two games, but she had never really seen the point and was actually happier watching than playing. Weir managed to beat Simpson, but lost to McKay. Ford, Stackhouse, and Markham were eliminated early. Michaels proudly managed to hang in for about half the tourney before his third loss; the 'thumbs up' Sheppard gave him on his final ranking was all he had wanted out of the competition anyway.

Carson found, to both his immense relief and surprise, that he actually won a game or two at each level before dropping down. By the time he had accumulated three losses, the tournament was well more than half over. Not a bad showing; now he could observe Sheppard without worrying about his _own_ next game.

Sheppard won, game after game, but to the doctor's knowing eyes it was costing him dearly. The few times Beckett actually saw him in the Mess Hall, he was either just picking at his food or had given up the pretense altogether and was sipping a cup of strong, black coffee. The dark circles beneath his eyes told of sleepless nights, and the slight tremor in his directed movements spoke of near complete exhaustion. Doctor/patient confidentiality or no, the day he came across the Major sound asleep at the controls of a Puddle Jumper he was supposed to be doing maintenance on, was the day Beckett headed to Weir's office.

"Come in," came the distracted reply to his determined knock. Weir glanced up from the report she was reading, smile fading into consternation at the grim expression on Carson's face.

"Doctor, what's wrong?" Straight to the point.

He could be direct, too. "I'm here to recommend disqualifying a member of this unit from any further participation in this damn chess competition, on medical grounds."

"I beg you pardon?"

"A blind beggar could see it's killing him!"

Realization dawned in her eyes. "Oh. You're talking about Major Sheppard."

"You bet your sweet..." he exploded initially, then visibly restrained himself. "Yes ma'am, I am. It is my medical opinion that, if he keeps up his present levels of stress, he will collapse from exhaustion before the week is out."

"Why? What's going on?"

Beckett managed to meet her gaze with both clear eyes and a clear conscience. "I cannot discuss the details due to confidentiality issues, but suffice to say: playing chess, particularly in front of an audience, is the equivalent of an emotional pummeling for him. He is essentially suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just because it stems from a childhood event rather than adult warfare makes it no less real. He is experiencing sleeplessness, anorexia, nightmares...all because of a ridiculous _game_. I strongly recommend that he be removed from competition."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

Here Beckett looked at his shoes, then raised his eyes again to meet hers. "No, Ma'am. I doubt that he'd agree."

"Then I will have to decline as well. It'll all be over in a few days, anyway, one way or another."

Beckett pursed his lips. "That's what I'm afraid of, Dr. Weir."

------------------------------------------------------------------

As it came down to the final six players, the games had become well attended. People would quietly stop in during their lunch break or in a free moment. Weir reviewed the rules for everyone at this point, so there would be no doubt as to the winner. "The final champion of this competition will be the only person who has _not_ lost three games; he or she could have lost two, but not three. That means that whoever _wins_ the first tier (she gestured towards Sheppard and McKay) will need to be defeated three times to be eliminated, while whoever _loses_ the third tier this round (she indicated Grodin and Simpson) will be out. The loser of the first two tiers drops down a level, and play continues until we have our finalists."

She took a deep breath and smiled; most of her 'troublemakers' had been eliminated, often by some of John's students. The whole base seemed caught up in the spirit of the contest as well. No matter how each match turned out, the winner would be congratulated while the loser got commiseration. "At that point the match-ups will be random, but the same rules apply. The ultimate winner will be the one person without three losses." She smiled at her audience. "Don't worry if you don't understand; the rankings will be announced at the end of the tournament." The audience chuckled at that.

The Sheppard vs. McKay was easily the most well-attended bout yet, and when Sheppard finally prevailed a triumphant shout went up throughout the room. John sat stock-still and dropped his chin to his chest, while McKay was swept off by a group of his fans to go analyze the play and tactics, as it was likely that the two would have a rematch. Sheppard sat silently for a moment, then stood, smiled wanly at the audience, and shuffled out of the room to the sounds of hearty congratulations. _'Beckett's right; he really doesn't look well.'_ Weir chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, then shook her head. Only a few more matches...

In tier two, Kavanagh defeated Zelenka, who dropped down a level. In tier three, Grodin defeated Simpson, and was in turn defeated by the Czech. Weir resumed her role as announcer. "All right, our final four competitors are: Major John Sheppard, so far undefeated." A roar went up from the crowd, and the Major shoved his hands in his pockets and blushed. "Doctor Rodney McKay, one loss." Another round of applause, to which Rodney bowed, smiled, and waved. "Doctor Kavanagh, one loss." Kavanagh stood with proud aplomb, as if the cheers were his due. "And Doctor Zelenka, two losses." He, like Sheppard, looked incredibly embarrassed at the attention; he stood up blushing, took a single quick bow, then sat again.

Dr. Weir then turned to the table behind her and picked up a hat. "Now this may seem old-fashioned to most of you, but in this hat are the four names. Who would like to do the honors?"

Teyla stood and walked forward when no one else volunteered. She quickly drew out two pieces of paper and handed them to Elizabeth. Unfolding them, she announced, "Our first game will be between Doctor Kavanagh and Major Sheppard. That means that the other pairing will be Doctors Zelenka and McKay. You may begin."

These contests proceeded at a slower pace than the ones before. However, when McKay ultimately prevailed, Zelenka was the first to shake his hand. "Just remember our bet," he whispered to his rival astrophysicist with a wink as they exited the room.

The two walked off, chatting amiably. "Hey, that's right." McKay shot Zelenka a suspicious glare as they reached the relative privacy of the hallway. "You knew all along that Sheppard was good at chess, didn't you?" When Zelenka only smiled bemusedly in reply, Rodney jumped on it. "You _did_ know! How? Did he tell you? Have you played him before?" This thought disturbed McKay slightly, and a he continued in a slightly offended tone, "Why would he tell you and not me? I thought we were friends."

The Czech could see where this train of thought was going, so he hurriedly derailed it. "No, no, no, McKay. Sheppard has never mentioned his ability, and has _certainly_ never played a game with me." He decided that he'd best just tell Rodney what he knew and get it over with, before the man had an asthma attack. "Let's speak privately." Looking around to make certain they were alone, he pulled McKay into a nearby deserted lab.

"Rodney, I'm not sure I should be telling you this, but you must promise on your honor that it will go no further; you will tell _no one_, understand? I'm certain that the Major has his reasons for keeping this ability a secret."

McKay looked confused, and considered protesting. However, ultimately his curiosity got the better of him. "Oh, all right. You have my word that I won't tell anyone."

Zelenka studied him carefully for a moment with narrowed eyes; finally deciding that McKay meant it, he nodded. "When I first met Major Sheppard, I felt that he looked familiar. One ability I pride myself on is that I never forget a face. Still, I could not place his."

Rodney rolled his eyes, motioning with his hands to 'get on with it'.

"The day we were discussing the impending tournament over lunch, and the possibility of a non-scientist winning, I suddenly remembered where I had seen Major Sheppard before." He paused, inhaled deeply, and continued. "It was at the World Junior Chess Championship that I accompanied my brother to 24 years ago."

"He was there? That's how you suspected he might know his way around a chessboard? A bit of a stretch, don't you..."

"McKay, please!" Zelenka interrupted the string of babble. "Yes, he was there, but not as an observer; like my brother, he was a contestant."

Rodney's eyes widened. "He competed...on an international level? He was what....14....15?"

Zelenka nodded. "Yes, something like that. It was the World _Junior_ Chess Championship, after all." He smiled reminiscently. "When it was over, my brother took me to the post-tournament party, where I got to shake the winner's hand." His smile faded. "I was one of he few who did. He got called out shortly afterwards and didn't return. We found out the next day that his parents had died while he was playing his final bout. They pulled him out of the party to tell him, I guess."

"Very poignant, but what has this little trip down memory lane have to do with the Major, other than he was at the same competition?"

Zelenka blinked at McKay's lack of comprehension. "Rodney..." he said softly, "The hand I shook that evening was that of a 14-year-old John Sheppard."

McKay was skeptical. "Come on; you expect me to believe that John Sheppard was a World Champion and hasn't mentioned this to anyone? And that you recognized the man a fourteen-year-old boy grew into, 24 years later? A boy you only met once?"

Zelenka shrugged. "Believe what you want; he did beat _you_ yesterday."

Rodney's eyes widened. That was right! Leaning back against a nearby lab table, he squeaked, "Sheppard was really once the World Champion at chess?"

Zelenka nodded. "In the eighteen and under division, yes." He flashed his cat-and-canary smile, "That's why I figured mine was a safe bet."

McKay found a stool and managed to sit down without falling. "I played against a world champion..."

"And lost, yes." Zelenka's grin turned positively smug.

Rodney was confused. "Wait a second. If this is really true, why _hasn't_ the man ever mentioned it before? If it were me..."

"If it were you, everyone you ever met would know, probably within 5 minutes of being introduced." Zelenka snorted. "Even 24 years later." He shrugged. "Not everyone is you, Rodney. It's not like it would come up in casual conversation. 'Isn't the coffee strong and, oh by the way, I was world chess champion when I was a kid'."

"No...no, of course not," replied Rodney distractedly. His eyes narrowed; _if_ Zelenka was right, and Weir _knew_...He had some research to do. "Well, even if true, it was a long time ago. I'll bet I can still beat him."

"Actually, you already made that bet. You don't have to do it a second time." Zelenka smirked as he left the room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Sheppard defeated Kavanagh with less difficulty than his game with McKay, but even Weir had to admit that he looked haggard. Sunken cheeks had joined the dark circles under his eyes, which themselves had a _distant_ look to them, as if seeing something far away. _'Or a long time ago...'_ thought Beckett bitterly. He begged Elizabeth again to stop this farce, but to no avail. Kavanagh had two losses, McKay one; the most games remaining in any circumstance were three. Surely he could last three more games?

McKay had been busy in the meantime. The conversation with Zelenka had raised a number of questions in his mind. First and foremost, was the Czechoslovakian's memory accurate? If so, what on earth happened at that match to keep Sheppard from bragging about it? Or ever even mentioning it? He couldn't believe that it just his personality; heck, the man never played! Despite having a 'chess club' on base, he'd never shown any interest at all. OK, maybe John's 'natural humility' prevented him from bragging, but what was preventing him from _playing_? You didn't go from 'World Champion' to 'Sorry, not interested' without a good reason. McKay's innate curiosity demanded an answer.

One thing he knew about chess was that 'experts' analyzed _everything_ about a championship match, down to the color of the contestants' socks. Stargate Command had sent along an almost infinite collection of historical and current event files in case they were needed; they took up very little space on a computer and had proven enormously helpful in combating the Goa'uld in the past. Rodney could certainly use some information now, and he hoped that it had tagged along in some of the more recent files. Sitting in front of his computer, he managed to locate information concerning Sheppard's championship competition almost immediately. If nothing else, it confirmed that Zelenka's memory was correct, and that it was the same 'John Sheppard' that won the contest that year. A picture of a much younger, more trusting, but clearly _their_ Major Sheppard stared back at him out of an archived _London Times_. Unfortunately, the analyses of the game were scant and overshadowed ten-to-one with accounts of his parents' murder after his final match. _'Huh. Zelenka only knew they died. I wonder what happened?' _He read further. Turned out that the killers had never been caught, but the police theorized that it had to do with gambling, organized crime, and a young man who wouldn't throw a game. One article practically _blamed_ the boy for his parents' demise; that same rag showed a John Sheppard who was a mere shadow of himself a few weeks previously – sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, suspicious glare. McKay started; that was the way Sheppard was looking right now. Surely he didn't blame himself for his parent's deaths! He was a fourteen-year-old child, after all. Thoughtfully he turned off the screen.


	5. Chess for the Living Dead

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

**The Tournament**

By Kerr Avon

**5. Chess for the Living Dead**

"We're down to three names today: Major Sheppard, with no losses; Doctor McKay, with one; and Doctor Kavanagh, with two. I'm asking for a volunteer to pull two names out of this hat, and they will have today's contest. The third person will have a 'bye'. Anyone?" Weir did her best on-stage announcing imitation. With a nod, Dr. Simpson stood, confirmed that all three pieces of paper held different names, then randomly drew out two.

Weir thanked her, then opened the two names. "Today's bout will be between....Dr. McKay and....Dr. Kavanagh. Major Sheppard won't be playing today." While a low moan of disappointment went up from some of the crowd, Dr. Beckett turned his eyes heavenward and thanked whatever deities remained that weren't Goa'uld for the break.

Sheppard showed no emotion one way or the other; he simply stood and quietly left the room as the two scientists went at it. Beckett, watching for it, swiftly followed and caught up with him in the corridor. "Major, do you have a minute?" he asked softly, matching strides.

"Doctor, I'm pretty wrung out and I'd..."

"That's what I'd like to talk to you about."

Sheppard slipped him a suspicious sideways glance. "What about it? I'm going to go take a nap right now."

"Well, it appears you aren't sleeping well, and I know you're not eating..."

"Is there a point to this diatribe?" snapped Sheppard uncharacteristically. Running a hand over his eyes, he immediately apologized. "Sorry, Carson, don't know what came over me."

"Look, I'll get to the point. I'd like you to withdraw from the tournament..." he held up a hand to forestall the Major's angry refusal, "but I know you won't. So, next best thing is a good night's sleep. I'd like to give you some sleeping pills to take for a few days, just until this thing is over. Afterwards, if you're still having problems, we'll work them out. All right?"

Sheppard nodded. He didn't like the thought of sleeping pills, but at this point he'd do almost anything for one uninterrupted night's sleep.

"Walk with me to the infirmary and I'll get them for you."

The next morning looked much better to a particular young Major. If he had any nightmares, the pills Beckett dispensed had caused him to sleep through them. Rather than running, he showered, dressed, and headed for breakfast. He managed a bowl of oatmeal along with two cups of coffee, but it was more than he had eaten in one sitting for days.

"Glad to see you're feeling better, then." Carson sat next to him with his own breakfast. "The medicine help?"

Sheppard nodded, chagrined. "Yeah, it did. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Just promise to come see me if the nightmares don't go away after the tournament is over."

"I sure hope I don't have to. Who won yesterday, anyhow?"

"McKay again, which means Kavanagh is out of the running. It's just you and Rodney now. You'll have to beat him twice, but he'll have to beat you three times in order to win."

"That means at most four more games, all with Rodney."

"Or as little as two, if you keep beating him."

"Let's hope I keep beating him, then."

McKay critically sized up Sheppard's physical condition when he showed up at the appointed time for the match. He hadn't really noticed before, but the man was clearly not at peak form. He looked a little better than he had the day previously, but still pretty drawn. It would hardly count if he won a match with a sick opponent.

He cleared his throat as Weir was doing her announcing, then stated quietly, "Nothing personal, Major, but you look like shit."

Sheppard snorted. "You're not getting out of this that easily."

McKay shrugged. If that's the way he wanted it...

Most of the base had squeezed into the room by the end of the hard-fought game. Sheppard stared in disbelief, then tipped over his king. A roar went up from the watching crowd, and Rodney was literally carried away on their shoulders. He had beaten the unbeatable! Sheppard smiled at their reaction; McKay deserved it. He himself had pulled some boneheaded moves, and the astrophysicist had capitalized on every one. He deserved to win that game. Besides, did it really matter anymore? Kavanagh and all his cronies were out, and McKay had never been a discipline problem. He had already won one too many games in his lifetime, at the age of fourteen. Wrapped up in that prior competition, he stood and left the nearly empty room.

Beckett didn't like the way John looked after that game, but said nothing. If he took the sleeping pills again tonight, he'd feel a whole lot better again in the morning.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Damn!" muttered Sheppard, sitting up in bed, covered in sweat yet again. "It wasn't the pills – it was the 'bye' that let me sleep the other night." He smiled wryly. "Well, at least that's a pretty good indication that they'll stop once I'm done playing." Pulling on his sweats, he headed out the door and into the deserted hallways.

"Lieutenant Ford, have you seen the Major yet today?" Beckett was concerned.

"No sir, why?"

"Well, you probably noticed that this competition has been quite a strain; I've been trying to keep an eye on him without making it too obvious. It's hard to do when you can't find the man!" He spread his hands in helplessness.

"I know where he'll be in thirty minutes."

Beckett glanced at his watch. _Damn. _"I guess I'll just go wait for him there, then."

Sheppard was already sitting at the chessboard when Beckett walked in. _'He looks worse than yesterday!'_ The doctor unhappily sat down and awaited the start of the game. He didn't have long to wait; McKay came breezing in to take his place across from John just moments later. The scientist was all triumphant smiles until he caught sight of the Major's face. His brows wrinkled in displeasure as his face changed to a 'fetching' shade of purple.

"Oh, absolutely not!" he exclaimed indignantly. He turned towards the onlookers, searching the crowd. "Is Doctor Weir in the room?" he asked, after not immediately setting eyes on their 'umpire'.

"Here, Rodney" She maneuvered her way forward. "What's wrong?"

He gesticulated vehemently towards the now-bemused Sheppard. "Th...**_this_ **is what's wrong!"

Weir looked at Sheppard's side of the table but saw nothing out of the ordinary. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I do not play chess against _zombies_!" Sheppard looked insulted. "It was borderline yesterday; today it's intolerable." He pointed to John's haggard appearance.

"If you refuse to play, you forfeit the match." Weir was testing his resolve.

"I thought this competition was to prove who was the best at this game. If I play him like this and win, it proves nothing, because I'd be surprised if he could make toast in his present condition, let alone play chess."

"Now wait just one second!" The Major started to reply.

McKay continued as if nothing had been said. "If he wins, then it also proves nothing, as I would be so distracted by playing chess against the living dead that _my_ game would be off."

Weir examined Sheppard critically. Rodney did have a point. "What would you suggest?"

"We're both at one loss, each to the other. Turn this man over to Doctor Beckett. When he's fit enough to play, he and I will arrange our games and let you know the results."

"But people want to watch the games..."

"Playing in a three-ring circus is also distracting to me. I want to _know_ who's better, and this is the only way we can truly determine that."

"Hey, don't I get any input?" John stood, 'casually' leaning on the table to hide any shakiness. "I want this whole thing _over_!!"

"But he has a point, John." Weir's eyes silently added, _'and we've already achieved our purpose; Kavanagh et al were beaten'_. To the audience, she said, "All right then. The match is postponed until further notice. Carson, if you would?"

Beckett was down in a flash, grasping Sheppard firmly by the right arm while Ford joined him on the left. Despite his protests, the Major was soon on his way to the infirmary.

-------------------------------------------------------

"Well, I guess that's it, then." McKay tipped over his king with a sigh. Upon arrival in the medical unit, Beckett had examined Sheppard to rule out any immediately life-threatening processes, then proceeded to sedate him into oblivion for the next two days. When he was finally allowed to emerge from his drug-induced catatonia, John found that his appetite had returned with a vengeance. 24 hours later he was released to return to his quarters. Beckett notified McKay that Sheppard was fit to play, but only without an audience. Without the onlookers, the nightmares did not return.

McKay had contacted Sheppard immediately and set up the first match. He brought the board to Sheppard's room, to expedite the process. John won the first round, and Rodney the second, tying them at two losses each. The dreams still remained at bay.

The last game was hard-fought, with a number of devious twists, but the Major ultimately prevailed.

"I'll let Weir know our final score." As each game had been played, McKay had reported it to Weir, who posted it above the list of top twenty players and their respective rankings in the Common Area. While most people were still interested in the outcome, the obsession had dwindled now that they couldn't watch the play. Everyone felt that the two were so far above the rest in chess skill that it didn't really matter who won. Zelenka was, of course, still interested, as he had quite a bit of money riding on the outcome; he had been somewhat disconcerted when Rodney's win had been posted, much to McKay's enjoyment. Still, it looked like Rodney owed him the twenty dollars after all.

"You're very good. That was a close game." Sheppard commented as he stored away the pieces.

McKay was pleased at the remark, and puffed up accordingly. "I suppose that's quite a compliment, coming from a World Champion."

The Major's hand froze over the board, his eyes shooting to McKay's face in surprise. "So much for doctor/patient confidentiality," he muttered to himself as he returned to his task.

McKay was confused at the apparent non sequitur. "What does Carson have to do with anything?"

Putting the lid on the box, Sheppard looked again at McKay. "Isn't he the one who told you?"

McKay shook his head. "Why, does he know, too? No, Beckett never said anything to me."

"He's the only one I told, and then under duress. Weir knows, of course, because it's a line in my personnel file, but I doubt she'd have told you, either..."

"Nope." Rodney was pleased to know something Sheppard didn't. "Turns out that one of the kids you beat at the world tournament all those years ago was Zelenka's brother. Zelenka remembered shaking your hand back then, the day after Weir announced the base contest, and bet us all that a non-scientist would win the tournament. He almost had a coronary after each of those two games I won against you." Rodney grinned in remembrance.

Sheppard considered for a moment, then shook his head at the coincidence. "Small world, huh?"

"Small _universe,_" corrected the scientist, at which John snorted in agreement.

"You know...if you had just played me when originally scheduled, you probably would have won easily."

"And what would be the point? As it is, I am absolutely positive that I have beaten you once when you were in top form. That's as important as winning the wager. Anything else would have been cheating."

"I'm glad you feel that way."

A thought struck McKay belatedly. "Wait a second; Weir _knew_ about your chess acumen before she announced the contest? She intentionally put in a ringer?!?" He felt angry and a little betrayed.

"That's why she made it triple-elimination, instead of just double. She wanted to prove to Kavanagh's group that brains come in different packages, and other people might have opinions worth listening to."

McKay's anger drained away as he gained a new appreciation for Weir. "Well, the whole bunch of them have been wandering around shell-shocked at the concept that they were beaten by a _mere_ soldier. Maybe she was right."

Sheppard grinned. "I guess that's why she's in charge."

McKay smiled as well. "I guess so." He reached for the door handle. "Well, I'd better be going; I have to give Zelenka that money."

"Hey, Rodney?" McKay turned back towards the Major, who was looking at the closed box.

"Yes?"

"Would you...well, I was wondering...would you like to play again sometime, unofficially, just one-on-one?"

Rodney grinned. "Anytime. Just call. Looking forward beating you again."

"Thanks." As Rodney exited, Sheppard had the feeling that the nightmares were finally gone for good.

The End

AN: Thanks to my McKay beta-reader, Richard, for keeping him appropriately self-centered. And thanks to everyone who stuck to reading this story – I'm glad you enjoyed it. I think the next one's going to be H/C again, instead of angst. Anyone else notice that there really isn't a good subcategory for H/C stories at FFnet? Oh well...

And to the shippers out there - I haven't really picked up a particular ship yet, so for the time being I'll stick to 'friend'-ship! ;-)


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